Stranger Than Fiction

by Emelle Gamble

  “Yeah. Met a woman in Kornos whom I got involved with. She was a journalist, and she helped me type and did some editing for me. She was real supportive of the idea. I made plans to go to Paris to do some research, then on to London, but she didn’t want to come with me, so we parted. I sent my book around and got a couple of bites, then a contract offer. The week after I signed, I was hit with a plagiarism suit. The book was never published, and she won her case.”

  Claire could almost taste Tony’s humiliation. “But how could she win? How did she prove it?”

  “She produced several drafts of my book, which she’d helped me type, and claimed they were hers. That, along with the expensive lawyers Billings Newcastle paid for, they did me in.”

  “Billings Newcastle!” She drew the silk shawl more closely around her at the mention of the man who was so famous for his underhand tactics. “Why did he get involved?”

  “He was buying out the publishing house I’d worked with on my cookbook series. He’d made me an offer the year before to reprint for half my royalty fee, and I refused. Evidently this was his way of paying me back.”

  They sat silently, waiting for the other’s next words. Finally Claire spoke. “So that’s why you’ve suspected Newcastle is connected to this scam. Did he set Patricia up to ruin Sarah Winesong and Cauldron Press?”

  “Who knows? I was suspicious as soon as I heard the rumors a month ago that he was interested in buying Cauldron from Harrison. Then, when I got the galley copy of Sarah Winesong’s manuscript to review and saw it was Patricia’s, I thought, wham, Newcastle strikes again.”

  “No wonder you were so angry.”

  Tony did not move his eyes away from Claire’s as he recalled their first meeting. “I was a creep to you then, too. But for all I knew, Newcastle put you up to buying Patricia’s book. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d paid someone off inside a company to ruin it. That’s his modus operandi. When those notes on Newcastle were among the stuff stolen the following day, I was sure you had some part in it.”

  “I appreciate your telling me this, Tony. We’ve got to tell Mr. Harrison about it, too. He’ll be better able to defend Cauldron Press against Newcastle if he’s warned.”

  Tony shook his head, tossing the cigarette into the cold fireplace. “It may be too late, Claire. You’re forgetting about Roz Abramowitz’s letter. If Patricia sent a copy of her manuscript to Usherwood Publications, Newcastle has Vincent Harrison in a legal death grip over the rights to the book. You said yourself your contract and legal departments have no correspondence from her. Unless we can come up with the IOU Patricia told me she signed, Cauldron may have no claim at all on the book. Which might be what Newcastle’s planned all along.”

  “If Newcastle knows about the debate over which woman wrote The Poison Pen Pal, doesn’t that prove he’s the one who murdered Patricia Snow? To shut her up?”

  “It’s a sound theory, but I can’t prove it yet, and neither can you. Once we find out who manipulated Patricia, either for a real manuscript or to blackmail Cauldron Press, we’ll be a lot closer to proving who murdered her.”

  Claire buried her head in her arms, trying to think clearly for a moment. Billings Newcastle. She had never even met him, and she wanted to kill him herself. Except there was something a little too pat about the whole thing, something she could not put her finger on.

  A piece of the puzzle sat just outside the scope of her reach. The only thing clear about this mess was that Tony trusted her.

  Didn’t he? “A case could also be made, a lot more logically, that someone inside Cauldron murdered Patricia to keep the scandal from being made public. Are you sure you’ve finally changed your opinion of me?”

  Tony walked over to where Claire sat, arms folded across her breasts, and picked up a strand of her golden hair. Rubbing it between his fingers, he spoke gently. “Nothing’s changed. Not since the first instant I laid eyes on you.”

  Claire shook with a tremor of anticipation, wanting his touch, but holding back. “That line is too old to work in any book, Tony. Despite the fact I stole the letter from Mrs. Snow’s, you don’t think I’m a thief, or worse?”

  “No, I think you are the most sensitive;” highly principled, sexiest woman I’ve ever been bashed over the head by.” Tony drew her out of the chair to her feet.

  Claire backed away a step. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be sorry. Be quiet.” Tony pulled her closer until Claire was pressed fully against him, her lips inches from his.

  His gaze remained even with her wide brown eyes as he slid his right hand underneath the heavily fringed shawl, up her bare arm to her neck. Burying his left hand fully in the soft thickness of her hair, he kissed her.

  As the seconds passed, Claire responded, her lashes finally closing with abandon as a groan escaped from deep within Tony. She held him hungrily, her slim fingers reveling in the luxurious thickness of his hair, the broad smoothness of his neck.

  Breaking the kiss, Tony’s smile faded to one of deeper need. He tossed the shawl onto the floor, reclaiming her mouth as more minutes passed. He moved to her cheek, murmuring. Then his tongue smoothly began to explore her lips, the curve of her cheek to her ear. Claire could barely restrain herself from dragging him down onto the floor.

  But despite her jagged breathing and wobbly legs, Claire knew she and Tony should stop. There was so much to do still, the future of so many people in their hands.

  Gently pushing her hand against his chest, she looked into his eyes. “Tony. Please stop.”

  For a second his eyes brimmed with confusion, and then a curtain of impatience slipped halfway down. “Do you really want to stop? I will, but only if you tell me you really want to.”

  “I can’t tell you that, because it would be a lie. And I hope never to lie to you, Tony. But there’s so much between us still. Someone’s framing you. Someone tried to kill me. They’re ruining my company, and the livelihood of several people hangs in the balance. We need to decide what to do next.”

  “I thought that was pretty obvious a minute ago.”

  Ignoring his direct look at her bare thighs, Claire picked up her shawl and covered herself. She sat down in her chair in front of him. “We need a plan of action. Once we get the proof we need, we’ll give all the evidence to the police. Then we’ll be free to get involved with each other. If you still want me.”

  For several seconds he just stared down at her. Claire knew that their future together was riding on his answer. “I’ll always want you.”

  She waited another second for the light to come back into his eyes. It did.

  Tony smiled and reached down to wipe away a wisp of hair stuck to her lip. “But you’ll have to help me. Go put some clothes on, and lock up that damn bird. Then maybe I can concentrate”

  Somehow she found the strength to stand. “I’ll be right back. Don’t start without me.”

  “Not a chance.”

  She leaned forward to brush a kiss on his lips when an explosion blew the silence and peace of the Sunday morning outside into a million pieces.

  They rushed to the window that overlooked the street and saw Tony’s Volvo, or what was left of it. It had been blown to bits. Red and blue flames leaped higher by the second and black smoke began to foam through the morning air. Two teenagers were running down the street, their clothes tattered. If the ghastly form on the charred remains of the driver’s seat was what Claire thought it was, the kids had left a friend behind.

  Dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Damien Laurent’s red silk robe was tied securely at the waist, a satin sleep mask pulled up over his hair. His bloodshot eyes bulged slightly at the sight of Claire and Tony standing at the front door of his brownstone.

  “Claire. My God, it’s not even nine o’clock. And Sunday. What’s happened? What are you doing here?”

  “Damien, can we come in? I’m really sorry to be so rude as to drop by without calling beforehand but Mr. Nichols and I need t
o speak with you.”

  Damien cast his eyes over Tony, then glanced at the box of pastries from the Pierre Hotel bakery in Claire’s hand and bowed slightly. “Of course, love, come in. Do I smell a story for my column, as well as breakfast?”

  Claire took a step, but Tony reached for her arm to stop her from entering the lavish foyer. “Mr. Laurent, before we take any of your time, we need to ask that whatever we tell you be kept off the record, and out of circulation, for a few days. If you can’t promise that...”

  Startled, Damien drew back. After a moment he smiled. “Oh, come in. Of course, I’ll be as quiet as the proverbial church mouse.” The critic winked at Claire as she and Tony stepped into the foyer. “Really, Claire, however do you find them?”

  Her whisper was conspiratorial, but her attempt at good spirits sounded forced. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  Damien took the bakery box and nodded for them to proceed into the living room. “Why do I have the feeling something bad has occurred?” His voice rose an octave. “Has something happened to Vincent? Or Aunt Tillie?”

  “No, they’re both fine. But Tony and I had a close call this morning. A bomb went off in his car, Damien, and a boy was killed.”

  Taking her arm firmly, Damien ushered them into his dramatic living room. “New York is really a challenging city to live in these days. Sit. Both of you. I’ll get something to fortify us all.”

  As he disappeared into the kitchen, Claire exchanged a glance with Tony. “I hope I’ve made the right choice getting Damien involved in this.”

  “You said we could trust him, Claire.”

  “I’m sure we can, Tony, but what if he won’t help us?” “Then we’ll go to someone else.”

  Claire drew in a shaky breath, and then sat back into the cushy softness of the black suede sofa. This was no time for an attack of nerves, she told herself. “We need Damien’s help, Tony. He can track down the Newcastle connection without drawing attention to Cauldron Press like Tillie or I would. But I don’t want to put him in any jeopardy.”

  “He strikes me as a businessman who can take care of himself. What are you going to offer him in return for what he can do?”

  “I’ll offer him an exclusive scoop on a soon to break scandal, complete with cops, murder and mayhem. I’m sure he’ll bite. Though I probably should clear this with Mr. Harrison first.”

  Tony gripped her hand, his lean face intense. “You haven’t talked to him for two days. If we wait until tomorrow, it may be too late. We’ve got to act fast to get the goods on Newcastle. My car getting bombed proves it.”

  Claire gulped, remembering the grotesque sight.

  “Whoever’s behind this,” Tony continued, “is no longer content with having me rot in jail. If that street punk hadn’t hot-wired my car, I’d have been permanently silenced.”

  Realizing he was right, Claire shivered. She and Tony had gone down to the street and listened on the sidelines” when the authorities showed up. The police said it was probably a homemade gasoline bomb, wired to the ignition.

  One cop had interviewed her and asked if she had any idea whose car it was. She had lied, adding yet another felony to her hit parade. “Let’s not think about that now. We’ll hope the murderer sees the story in the paper and assumes he got you.”

  “He?”

  “Or she, okay?” Claire knew he was testing her resolve to find the truth, but she could not stop her knee jerk loyalty to Sarah Winesong. Until she talked to the author herself, she would hang on to her diminishing hope that the woman was not involved.

  Claire searched in her gray tweed jacket for a Turns. “That’s one of the things I’m going to check when we get to my office.”

  Damien’s return cut short her comment. “Here we are, darlings, java and croissants. The only civilized reason to be up before noon.” Their host set, an ebony lacquered tray down on the table in front of them, the china clinking merrily. As he passed around napkins and dishes, he studied them.

  Claire took a cup and tried not to look nervous. “Your home is gorgeous since you had it redecorated, Damien.”

  “Thank you. Just like me after my chin tuck, right?”

  As Claire chuckled, Tony fought the urge to leave. He was not totally comfortable with Damien. Though he found him likable, it seemed to him Laurent was trying to camouflage something.

  “Well, Mr. A. A. Nichols, does this visit have anything to do with your reentry into the world of culinary literature?”

  Tony shook his head. “No. Cookbooks are behind me, Mr. Laurent. Although my past association with a certain member of the publishing community is part of the reason I’ve come to you.”

  Damien wiped his mouth with the napkin and stared at Tony. “And which member is that?”

  “Billings Newcastle.”

  Claire’s stomach tightened. They could blow it all if she had misjudged Damien’s friendship. Fear wafted around her like stale smoke as she watched the two men weigh each other.

  After several seconds, Damien sat back. “Mr. Newcastle is a very important man, Mr. Nichols. Just ask Claire. I understand the company she works for is about to become the latest, jewel in his crown of publishing houses.”

  “That rumor is wrong, Damien,” Claire shot back. “You know Mr. Harrison will never sell. Cauldron Press means too much to him.”

  All three were quiet for a minute as Claire’s emotional declaration sank in. Finally, Damien nodded. “You may be right. Vincent did tell me when he started out that once he got a few name authors, Cauldron would be strong enough to compete with anyone. With Sarah Winesong, his vision was realized.”

  “Until now.” Tony leaned forward. The theatrical lighting above heightened a faint shadow of beard on his strong jaw.

  “Cauldron Press is really in trouble, Damien,” Claire said, nervously folding and unfolding her napkin. “And we think Newcastle has set up a series of events to force Mr. Harrison to sell out or have his business ruined. There’s even the possibility of murder....”

  Damien’s gaze remained steady. “You mean the car bomb? It sounds to me like the police will call that an accident. New York street dopers trying to blow the car open, probably.” He sipped his coffee.

  “I’m not talking about Tony’s car. Another person, a young writer, was murdered two days ago,” Claire replied.

  “A writer? Anyone I know?”

  “No.”

  All three drank their coffee. “I see,” Damien finally commented. “Not killed, murdered?”

  “Complete with bullets, blood and the cops, Mr. Laurent. Which is why Claire and I need you to find out whatever you can about Newcastle’s plans to acquire Cauldron, particularly the price he’s paying, and if it’s a fair market value. It’s important not to tip him off. We don’t want him to know we’re on to him.”

  Damien raised an eyebrow. “Of course. I assume you have some reason for me not to go directly to Vincent for this information?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Claire. “Please, Damien. I want to help him. He’s kept some financial dealings from me, and I can’t put any more pressure on him now. But I need to know what we’re up against with Billings Newcastle.”

  “You can help the publishing world rid itself of a piranha by helping us unmask Newcastle, Mr. Laurent.”

  “Even piranhas have their place in the scheme of things, Mr. Nichols. They clean up the refuse.” Damien smiled coolly at Tony, clearly pleased with himself.

  Claire ignored the gibe, and the jousting men, to get to the finish line. “We also need to know if Roz Abramowitz is part of the offer,” she said.

  “Your good friend Roz?” Something made Damien flinch, and he sat forward quickly. “Well, the plot thickens.”

  Claire knew the powerful critic well enough to see he was intrigued indeed. All she needed to do was persuade him it would be worth his while to help.

  After a moment, he stretched his long arms, cracking his fingers. “I can understand our dear Miss Kennedy’s instincts to prote
ct and preserve Cauldron Press, Mr. Nichols. Next to Aunt Tillie, I’d say she loves that company more than anyone. But I don’t quite understand how you fit into the picture.”

  “Let’s just say my priorities are to help Miss Kennedy.”

  The critic’s laugh was sharp. “Ah, love. How refreshing. It is April, isn’t it?” He turned to Claire, whose freckles were standing out prominently. “Why Claire, I do believe you’re leaving out a certain element in this story line.”

  She ignored his insinuation. “With your help, we can probably save Cauldron Press, Damien. You know Mr. Harrison will be grateful.”

  Damien blinked. “Oh, I’ll make Vincent pay for my help, of that you can be sure. Okay, I’ll find out what I can. Call me tomorrow at my office, in the afternoon. Even I need a little time.”

  “Thank you, I will.” Kissing Damien lightly, Claire held hands with him as they walked to the door. She glanced back at Tony, who followed.

  He was fighting the sense of foreboding that had grown since he had pressed Laurent’s doorbell. Had they made a mistake talking to Damien? What if he tipped off Newcastle?

  As the door shut behind them and they descended the steps to the sidewalk, Tony linked arms with Claire. “Well, what do you think, Claire? Will he keep things confidential?”

  “I’m sure he will. He loves idle gossip, but knows how valuable a story like this could be to his career. And he’s been very loyal and supportive of Mr. Harrison for years. We don’t have to worry about Damien. When he agrees to do something; he does it.”

  “You know him better than I do.” Kissing her gently, Tony wrapped his arm tightly around her slim shoulders. She was so tough and businesslike, ferocious even, when it came to protecting her company. But lurking under the surface was someone as bruised as he was.

  “He guessed we’re involved, though. I hadn’t planned on that,” Claire said.

  “So what? I can’t wait to see the hot story about an ex-cookbook hack and the most beautiful lady editor in New York City being an item. It’ll do wonders for my reputation.”

  Claire felt a rush of emotion. “Mine, too. Tillie will be delighted once she meets you.”